by DL Fowler
My shoulders droop more than usual as I shuffle toward my desk, past the pail of drinking water with tin cups we share that dangle from its rim. Arrayed around the room are buckets of sand we use for blotting ink, though the tobacco chewers also use them for spittoons.
John Stuart walks over and stands next to me as I take my seat. “Lincoln,” he says, “Hope you don’t expect your dour countenance to put you in any better favor with these Jackson men than it does with the young women of New Salem.”
I look up at him. “Berry is dead.”
He furrows his brow. “Who’s Berry?”
I drop my head and mumble, “My old partner from the general store.”
Stuart shrugs. “Isn’t he the one who caused you more grief than good?”
“Yes. Just received news this morning.”
“Why the gloom? What’s it to you that he’s dead?”
I knead my brow with the heels of my hands. “With him dead, the entire burden of paying off our indebtedness falls on me. As if that weren’t enough, while we were traveling here by stagecoach, my horse and surveying tools were being sold at auction by the Sheriff.” I shake my head. “How can I earn a living? I’ll never afford the education to become a lawyer.”
“Listen to me, Lincoln. No defeat is ever as final as it seems.” He clutches my shoulder. “That’s a lesson you need to learn fast if you’re going to make a name for yourself around here. Leaders don’t bask in the glory of their victories; they squeeze every lesson they can from their defeats. Folks back home care more about a man’s character than they do about the measures he stands for. Persistence is the thing. The battles you win or lose don’t count as much as being known for fighting and never giving up.”
The Speaker raps his gavel.
I raise my head.
Stuart leans close to me and whispers, “We’ll talk at supper. That gavel means we have business to attend to.”
At supper, Stuart says that much of the legislature’s business isn’t conducted while we’re in session. After legislators and hangers-on conclude their various evening entertainments of drinking, singing, parties, and theatricals, private bargaining over small measures takes place at bars and around tavern tables. Larger bills like the Illinois-and-Michigan Canal and the State Bank are threshed out by candlelight in the lobby of the House Chamber. During these informal sessions, senators and representatives aren’t shackled by official rules. As the anti-Jackson floor leader, Stuart usually attends these lobby sessions along with state officials, speculators, and small-fry politicians looking to curry favors.
After a few days of mundane business, a report on internal improvements lifts the melancholy that weighs me down. My first bill as a legislator, one authorizing Samuel Musick to build a toll bridge across the Sangamon River near the new settlement of Petersburg, has been passed by the Senate after having cleared the House of Representatives.
Shortly afterwards, a moment of levity is created when we learn that our earlier appointment of Samuel McHatton as surveyor of Schuyler County was made when no vacancy existed. One of the members responds by offering a motion to “vacate” the nomination. I rise to make my first speech before the body.
As I understand the opinions of legal gentlemen, there appears to be no danger of the new surveyor ousting the old one as long as the current office-holder persists in not dying. May I therefore suggest we let matters remain as they are? In that way, if the old surveyor hereafter concludes to die, there will be a new one ready-made to take office without troubling the legislature.
My motion is greeted with robust laughter, even though it is quickly voted down. Next, debate ensues on a resolution to rescind Mr. McHatton’s appointment. When that resolution is laid on the table indefinitely, the result is the same as would have resulted from my motion.
The Speaker seems to have appreciated my humor. Previously, I had been largely ignored, but now I’m appointed to serve on special committees and am frequently recognized to make important motions. Consequently, in late January near the end of the legislative session, the Jackson men try to take me down a notch. After I give notice of my intention to introduce An Act Relative to a State Road, John Dawson, an arrogant Sangamon Democrat who chairs the Internal Improvements Committee, takes credit for the bill, introducing it under his own name. As a result, the bill’s passage does me little good in gaining favor with the voters back home.
Stuart lays out a plan for me to garner recognition by staking out a claim on one of Dawson's bills, An Act to Improve the Navigation of the Sangamon River. After the House passes Dawson’s navigation bill, I make a motion to change its title to An Act to Authorize a Special Election in Sangamon County. My maneuver succeeds, and his bill becomes law under my title.
In late February, the legislative session ends with the State Treasurer reporting our nearly insolvent state holds a meager $296.66 in its accounts.
On my return to New Salem, I learn I’m in better financial condition than the State of Illinois. My friend “Uncle Jimmy” Short —whose stature matches his name and who’s hardly older than me—tells me he bought my horse and surveying tools at the Sheriff’s auction. When he delivers the news he asks, “Do you give me your word you’ll reimburse me when you’re able?”
Tears well in my eyes; my lips quiver. I nod.
Uncle Jimmy pats me on the arm. “Abe Lincoln, you’re the most honest man I’ve ever met.”
The only words that spill out of my mouth are, “Thank you.”
He points to my horse with saddle bags draped over its withers. “She’s all yours.”
After thanking him again, I gallop off to meet with each of my creditors as Stuart suggested. All of them agree to accept satisfaction in modest installments.
Later in the day, I ride out to Uncle Jimmy’s near Petersburg and find Annie has taken on work as his housekeeper. She had stayed down the village to manage the tavern after her father sold it, but now she lives at the family’s farm, about half a mile east of Uncle Jimmy’s place.
“How do?” Uncle Jimmy says when he sees me in the doorway. “Will you be staying the night?”
“Yes. I’ve some surveying up here in the morning. In fact, I’ll be staying for a few days if that’s all right.”
He nods.
I turn to Annie and ask if we can talk in private. Uncle Jimmy’s place is large by New Salem standards, and she leads me to a quiet corner. In hushed tones, I tell her about my financial distress and my plans to study the law in earnest to earn a good enough living to pay back my debts and make someone a fine husband.
She reaches up to place her hands on my shoulders. I stoop to meet her touch. Gazing up at me, she says, “Abraham, any young woman would be more than lucky to have you … and as far as your obligations are concerned, if ever there was a man who could be trusted to keep his word, it is you. You’re certain to make good on your studies and become a fine lawyer. Maybe even a judge, someday.”
Her pink cheeks brighten and her soft lips curl into a smile. “Why, people even talk about you becoming governor.”
I look away and fumble with my hat. “Well, if people hear you saying such nice things about me, they might question your good sense, if not your sanity.”
She smacks me on the arm. “You stop that kind of talk, Mr. Lincoln.”
I gaze overhead at the long tie-beam spanning the length of the roof. “Have I ever told you that you’re … quite an … an intellectual woman?”
She laughs. “No, can’t say you have. No one has ever said anything so nice to me before.”
“Annie, I’m not much to look at …” a lump rises in my throat “… especially compared to McNamar ….”
She reaches up and puts a finger to my lips. “Shh … Mr. McNamar has passed up his chances with me.”
My stomach tightens. I rake my fingers through my mat of hair and stare again at the rafters. “I’ve had a thing on my mind since leaving for the legislature ….�
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“Well, if you intend to ask about courting me, don’t expect me to wait as long for you to get to it as I waited on another gentleman to keep his promise.”
I wring my hands. “Well ….”
“What I mean to say is I’ll do the asking, if that’s what it takes.”
We laugh together. “No,” I stammer. “Uh, yes, that’s what I intend to ask, but I’ll do it. You shouldn’t have to.”
“Fine, then. My answer is yes, but there are some conditions.”
“I’m all ears.”
She reaches up to pinch them. “That you are.”
I press her hand against my cheek.
She looks up. “Now first, you should finish your law studies, right?”
I nod.
“And I plan to enroll in the Female Academy in Jacksonville.”
“When?”
“In the coming fall. My brother David is a student at Illinois College—the schools are practically next to each other. He says I can board with him.”
My eyes widen. “I can matriculate at Illinois College. We’d both be in Jacksonville.”
“What about the legislature?”
“I’ll take classes when the legislature’s not in session. Berry attended there, and Billy Greene’s been studying there, as well.”
She squeezes my hand.
I squeeze hers. “Are you ready for the entrance exams?”
“Not yet,” she says, “but Mentor Graham has a friend in Athens. His name is Colonel Rogers. He led an infantry unit in the War of 1812. Mentor says the Colonel’s daughter can tutor me.”
“I’ll escort you to Athens. Colonel Rogers’ inn is the pick-up point for the mail when the Sangamon is flooded and the courier can’t make it to New Salem.”
She lets go of my hand. Her smile dissolves. “There’s one other thing.”
My heart skips. “Yes?”
“Before we broadcast our courtship, Mr. McNamar must release me from our engagement. It’s official, and that means ….”
“I know. It’s a contract. Under the law he must release you from it. It’s only right … but what … what if you never hear from him?”
“I’ll write to him straight away to ask for his release. That’s sure to get his attention.”
“Annie, dear.” My heart thumps in my chest. “I shall never be unhappy again. With you at my side, I can make a great mark on the world.”
She wraps her arms around my waist. “Mr. Lincoln, I love you earnestly.”
“I love you and always shall.”
Uncle Jimmy calls out from across the room, “Ain’t it getting to be about time for supper?”
“Yes, Mr. Short,” Annie says.
Uncle Jimmy bellows, “Abe … you ain’t exactly company, you know. You best set about giving the girl a hand.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Her smile returns, and her eyes twinkle.
A week later, we dismount on arriving in Athens for Annie’s first tutoring session with Arminda Rogers. I take Annie’s hand, lead her over to my horse, and reach into my saddlebag to draw out my copy of Kirkham’s English Grammar in which I have inscribed—Ann M. Rutledge is now learning grammar. When I present it to her, she beams. I lean down, and she kisses my cheek.
The warmth of her kiss stays with me throughout the day and into the evening, even after we return to Sand Ridge. When Blackstone makes no sense to me, I turn to the Statutes of Indiana and later sift through Flint and Gibson’s treatises on surveying. It all becomes scrambled in my brain. I consider venturing over to the Rutledge place to borrow the English Grammar I’ve given Annie, but the sight of her would make a further rat’s nest of my thoughts. I cram my head with more mathematics of surveying, and my weary imagination rebels. An all too familiar refrain—those whom I love are cursed—echoes through my head. Part of me argues I cannot live without her while the rest protests that Providence will steal her away at some unexpected hour. Long after midnight I’m exhausted and drift off to sleep.
Frigid winter days yield to torrents of rain in March and April. While stormy days bring more gloom than bright ones, long hours of work and study keep me from spiraling into melancholy as we wait for McNamar’s reply. Regardless of the weather, my day almost always begins and ends in solitude. I rise early each morning with a fresh determination to rein in my thoughts and prove I’m their master. Before Annie arrives to do her chores, I’m off pounding stakes, measuring, and dragging my surveyor’s chain through the woods and tall prairie grasses. Early evenings are given to studying with Annie at her father’s farm, careful to avoid appearances that would compromise her reputation. I return to Uncle Jimmy’s and study late into the night.
One day each week I lay aside my surveying tools and ride to Athens with Annie for tutoring, taking supper those evenings at the Rutledges. After eating, we study grammar and ciphering. Even those days end with my solitary studies of law and surveying.
Continued downpours through May and June make a soggy mess of everything. Dragging my surveying chain through the muck wears me down, and constant blinking to clear my vision sets my temples to throbbing. Uncle Jimmy and the Rutledges, especially Annie, worry that I’m overtaxing myself. They point to dark circles under my sunken eyes and call my complexion jaundiced.
When blistering heat greets us on Independence Day, Annie convinces me to take a break from my labors and join her at a quilting bee. While sitting beside her, the only man among a gaggle of women, I slide my hand under the quilting frame and onto her knee.
She kicks my leg. When I frown, she cranes her neck and whispers in my ear, “Do not make a display.”
I turn to the fair-skinned Fanny Bailes, still a teenager, giggling on the other side of me and tease her. She looks away and sets about sewing in earnest, so much so that she lodges the needle in her finger. I lean toward her, take her hand in mine and withdraw the needle.
Annie continues diligently with her sewing, avoiding my gaze.
I return my attention to Fanny and dab a bead of blood from her finger with my kerchief. “Is it better?”
After hesitating, Fanny bats her eyes. “Thank you, Abe. You have the gift of healing.”
I look across the quilting frame at Mrs. Herndon who’s staring at me. “I’m in a quandary and hope you can lend some advice. Which of these two girls should I marry?”
Annie glares up at me and proceeds to stitch with frenzy, staring straight ahead, not bothering to look down at her work. Her long, irregular stitches are a funny sight, and I point at them. “Why Annie, your needle has gone off on its own.”
She jumps from her seat and throws her needle onto the quilt.
I reach for her hand, but she jerks it away.
My cheeks burn. “I was only teasing.”
Without acknowledging my awkward apology, she runs off crying and disappears around the corner.
My heart fills with shame.
Chapter Fourteen
We swelter under oppressive heat and lingering humidity as the rains cease in mid-July of 1835. Disease-ridden mosquitoes swarm at us from every mud hole, their bites raising welts wherever they find bare flesh. Many folks are stricken with typhus.
Each evening, after a day of dragging my surveyor chain through woods and fields, I rush back to Uncle Jimmy’s hoping to catch Annie before she finishes her housekeeping chores. His answer is always the same. “She left earlier.”
My refrain is, “Where?”
“I’m not her father or husband. As long as she does her work, I’m happy.”
I sulk off to bed.
He calls after me. “She put up supper for ya.”
I mumble. “Not hungry.”
Rather than reading the law or studying the surveying volumes, my night is spent scribbling out a pamphlet that lays out my personal gospel.
I have no faith in things that cannot be demonstrated before my eyes. I am so constituted, my mind so inclined toward o
rganization, that I can believe nothing that neither my senses nor logic can reach.
All things, both matter and mind, are governed by universal, absolute and eternal laws. I believe in universal inspiration and miracles only as evolutions under those laws. Law is everything. Mystical interferences are merely shams and delusions.
I claim not to have controlled events, but confess plainly that events have controlled me. Law fates all things and forgives nothing. Forgiveness is an absurdity.
When the first morning light draws a faint line across the eastern horizon, I take up my saddle bags and venture down to the Rutledge’s well to wait under a large tree at the edge of the clearing. My eyes are as heavy as my heart. I’ve barely slept since my great Independence Day blunder.
Twigs snap under Annie’s feet, alerting me before she comes into view. When she appears, my breath catches in my throat. The shimmer of sunlight arcing over the horizon behind her casts an aura over her sandy hair, a halo. Shame taunts me for having behaved so stupidly toward her.
On seeing me, she stops and draws back a step.
I’m quick to my feet. “Please.”
Her tone is icy. “What do you want?”
“I was a fool. Don’t know what came over me.”
She walks briskly, angling toward the well. “You certainly are a fool.”
“Everyone knows I’m clumsy around the girls.”
She rests her bucket on the rim of the well.
“Can you forgive me? You have the right to shun me, but please, I can’t bear knowing you shall forever—.”
“After you embarrassed me at the quilting bee, I told Arminda to have her father hold my mail in Athens. I pick it up on my lesson days.”
